Sherlock's Head, John's Heart
by Altego
Summary: All Sherlock Holmes fans know the fate of Mary Watson (nee Morstan), so I don't feel this story is spoilerific, as they might not go down this route in the show. Anyway, I've borrowed from ACD and House MD and although it's not strictly romance, it's major bromance, with some angsty speedbumps along the way. Reviews welcome.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did**

"Breathe, please, just breathe, for me." John's voice was almost a sob, but he wouldn't allow himself to cry. He was a doctor, he was doing chest compressions to save a life and if he gave in to the tears, he wouldn't have the strength to continue.

There was blood, so much blood, covering his hands, dripping onto the floor and every compression seemed to push more out of the wound, but there was nothing else that could be done. He had help, Lestrade was beside him, putting pressure on the wound with John's jumper, which had been cream, but was now a startling shade of red.

The ambulance would be here any second. John had called it. In fact, John had done everything he knew from his medical training to react swiftly and efficiently to this crisis. He'd given the injured person the best chance of surviving this. So why did he feel like he'd failed them?

"Suddenly, that person coughed, blood spraying in the saliva from their lips, which wasn't good, but they were breathing, which was something.

"Hang on, please, hang on." John's voice cracked, as his hand came up to caress the injured person's face. "I love you," he whispered, tears swimming in his eyes. The faint noise of an ambulance siren was heard growing closer.

"Thank God," Lestrade breathed out and redoubled pressure on the wound.

The eyes of the person below John's caress fixed glassily on his face and they attempted a smile, then they raised an unsteady hand, to point to the person currently pacing the floor alongside them.

Lestrade turned, kicked the pacing figure with his foot and gestured to them with his head. They looked down at him with an unfathomable expression.

"Down here, now." Lestrade said angrily.

There was a commotion outside then and the doors flew open, two paramedics running up the aisle of the theatre with a stretcher, followed by another with all their kit.

The pacing figure sank to their knees beside John, but John Watson never took his eyes from the face of the injured person on the ground. In the seconds before the paramedics reached them, that person raised their hand and placed it on the arm of the previously pacing figure, leaving a bloody handprint on their coat.

"Love him for me Sherlock." Mary gasped out.

And with that, Mary Watson's glassy eyes rolled back in her head. The three men were shoved aside by the paramedics, who began frantically working on her lifeless body.

John Watson's howl of anguish could be heard in the street outside.


	2. Chapter 2

**20 minutes earlier **

"You really didn't have to come along sweetie, it's just a quick evidence gathering."

"You know I like seeing what you do though, it's exciting." Mary turned to peck John on the cheek. Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"What's up now grumpy chops?" Mary said playfully. John smirked, she was the only person he'd ever known who got away with talking to Sherlock like he was a five year old.

"John's right, you _really_ didn't have to come along."

"Three's a crowd isn't it? Well, now you know how I feel when you turn up during dinner."

"Ohhhh!" Sherlock said, in mock surprise, "This is you getting your own back. How imaginative."

"Now then children," John said a note of amusement in his voice, "we've been through this, stop goading one another, because I'll just end up ignoring you both until you've made up."

Sherlock sneered and Mary sniggered; the little group continued with their reconnaissance of the theatre.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Mary asked, as Sherlock leapt on the stage.

"He reckons the students working for these guys panicked when we confronted them and the drugs must have been disposed of during the play, therefore they're somewhere on stage." John nodded towards Sherlock, who was currently laid on the floor, tapping the boards for a hollow spot.

"Maybe around the stage, rather than under it." Mary said climbing up after the consulting detective. "I used to work backstage in the theatre when I was at uni, there are allsorts of systems of ropes and pulleys and little hidden pockets in the curtains."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing to look up at Mary curiously.

She made her way over to the side of the stage, pulled something about, shook the curtain and several white packets tumbled down.

Sherlock leapt to his feet and John was thrilled to see a look of admiration cross his face as he approached Mary.

"John, tell Lestrade we've found the rest of the heroin."

John could hear his best friend and his wife talking as he got out his mobile and texted Lestrade. When he looked up, they'd walked slightly off stage into the wings, so John made his way to the steps at the side. As he climbed up, he allowed himself a smile, they were finally getting along; this was good.

"So Sherlock, pretty useful that we brought her after all, don't you thi …?"

John's words died on his lips as he was confronted with four people, Sherlock, Mary and two rough looking men, who seemed like they should be working on the door of a dodgy nightclub. The men held their hostages about the neck, each pressing a gun to their heads; they pushed John's best friend and his wife forwards onto the stage and John felt blinding anger and crippling fear fighting for dominance within him. These two men were threatening his whole world and they looked like they couldn't care less.

As John approached, his hand outstretched in a calming gesture, they led him around in a circle, moving backwards, towards the other side of the stage, keeping Sherlock and Mary out in front of them and putting distance between themselves and the army doctor.

John Watson's wide eyes flicked between Sherlock and Mary, but he tried not to give in to the adrenaline coursing through his veins and making him feel weak at the knees. Sherlock looked decidedly bored with the whole situation, whilst John could see Mary, taking her queue from the consulting detective and trying not to let her fear show.

The gunman holding Sherlock spoke first.

"Well Doctor Watson, I'd prefer to have you in this position, so that I can get through to _this one_" and he choked Sherlock for a few seconds, to indicate his displeasure. "But circumstances have forced me to improvise."

"If you want the drugs, just take them, we'll let you go." John said, willing his voice to remain steady.

"John!" Sherlock choked out, indignant at his blogger giving in so easily.

"You might, doctor, but he won't. Besides, you took half the stash at the scene last week, which resulted in one of my best men being killed by the buyers we had lined up. This is why I need to get my point across."

"Which is what?" John asked, trying to placate the man.

"An eye for an eye; we don't mess about Doctor Watson. So, I'd like you to choose; your best friend, or your wife."

The man holding Mary grinned sadistically and choked her too, causing tears to spring up in her eyes.

"You have ten seconds to decide."

John felt his breath leave him like someone had punched him in the stomach. Not again, he couldn't lose Sherlock again. But Mary, oh god Mary, he'd die if he lost her. No, this wasn't happening.

"10 … 9 …"

"Stop, please, we can reach an agreement. Nobody has to die."

"8 … 7 …"

"This is ridiculous" Sherlock drawled, "he'll clearly choose Mary, where's the advantage in …"

"Sherlock, shut up." John yelled, his hands coming up to tear at his hair.

"6 … 5 … 4 …"

"I choose neither." John's head snapped up, anguish, but determination in his eyes. "Kill them both, then kill me. I'll have nothing left to live for."

The man paused his countdown and loosened his arm slightly around Sherlock's neck.

"He's a bit dull isn't he?"

"I disagree, I'd say he's a beacon of light that illuminates even the darkest corners." Sherlock's voice had an edge to it that made John look up and the two men locked eyes for a second.

It was in that second that John realised Sherlock had a plan and he saw the consulting detective carefully pull an empty ammunition clip from his pocket and roll his eyes upwards. John looked at the dark, vacant spot in the wings behind the men, whom he could tell were about to take him up on his offer of a triple murder and deciphered Sherlock's cryptic words.

"Lestrade, now" he yelled and Sherlock threw the ammunition clip underhand and behind him, making as little movement as possible. The resulting clatter, along with John's shout, caused the man holding Mary to turn around, loosening his grip on her. This in turn caused the man holding Sherlock to look at his companion and Sherlock made his move, sliding down from the gun pressing at his head and driving his elbow hard into the man's stomach.

The gunman doubled over, only to be knocked to the ground with a blow on the back of his neck and disarmed in one swift move. John pulled his gun from his belt, as Sherlock turned to the man holding Mary.

She'd copied Sherlock's assault and winded her assailant, ducked out of his arms and was running towards the wings of the stage, as he raised his gun at her back.

"Mary get down" John yelled, she turned and John fired as Sherlock fired. Neither man ever found out who'd hit the gunman with the kill shot, but he slumped to the ground with a bullet hole in his head, as well as one in his chest.

Sherlock glanced behind him and stamped on the hand of his previous hostage taker, who'd drawn a small calibre pistol from his pocket. He then knocked him out with the butt of his gun, as Lestrade and Donovan burst through the doors of the theatre.

In all the excitement, John had forgotten he'd texted Greg.

Lestrade was up on the stage and cuffing the unconscious man, before he'd even asked what was going on. John heard Sherlock starting to explain, as Donovan began putting on gloves to examine the dead man and the drugs. John suddenly felt a second adrenaline rush course through his body, as he realised Mary was missing. He looked around for his wife and sighed with relief when he saw her leaning against the wall in the wings.

"Hey" he said with a smile, but Mary didn't smile back, instead she looked, what was that look? Guilty? "What's wrong babe?" John's voice suddenly sounded like it was under water to his own ears. "Mary?"

In his peripheral vision, John saw Sherlock turn to him, the sound of his voice alerting his best friend to the fact that something was amiss.

"I'm sorry John." Mary said shakily, as she staggered away from the wall and towards him on the stage. He saw it then, the hand clutched over her lower abdomen and the blood pumping from the wound, despite the pressure she was putting on it. Her face was gray and there were tears in her eyes.

Sherlock was the first to move, catching Mary as she fell and lowering her to the ground. For a spilt second John was frozen to the spot, until Lestrade called out.

"Donovan, ambulance, now."

But before she'd even reached her mobile, John moved to emergency mode and had his phone pressed to his ear.

"I need an ambulance to the Kings Road Theatre, 35 year old female, gunshot wound to the abdomen, I think it may have hit an artery."

Then the phone was dropped and John was on his knees, as his wife's body jerked, once, twice, in Sherlock's arms and she stopped breathing.

Donovan ran outside to wait for the paramedics and get on the radio, to stay in touch with call and dispatch.

John pushed Sherlock away hard, the consulting detective landing awkwardly on his backside. John seemed unconcerned that this resulted in Sherlock dropping Mary's upper body to the ground. Instead he tore his jumper off and threw it at an anguished Lestrade, as Sherlock sat and looked at his blogger, confusion written over his face.

"I need pressure on this wound. Now Greg." he yelled. Whilst the DI obeyed, the former army doctor began chest compressions. For a few moments Sherlock stayed where he was, then he got up and began pacing.

This was all wrong, he could have done chest compressions, or he could have put pressure on the wound. Why did John push him away? She was clearly dead anyway. No Sherlock, bad thoughts, that would mean John would be broken and then he'd be no good to anyone. But thinking she'd survive this would be false hope. Why was John bothering? It was his wife, of course - sentiment. How had she even been shot? He and John had fired and they'd both hit the correct target, then … Oh, stupid, the man now cuffed and unconscious on the ground, he'd fired at the same time, with the pistol, at the only target he'd been facing, Mary and she'd turned around when John shouted.

Sherlock pulled at his hair as he paced. It was all wrong, it was a stupid drugs case, small time dealers, they didn't even matter, it was nothing compared to what Moriarty had been. No, stop, John hated it when he lamented the loss of Moriarty to the criminal world, because Moriarty had been the cause of John thinking Sherlock was dead for three years. John, John, John. He was going to blame him, but this was Mary's fault, she'd come along to spite Sherlock, but that still meant John would blame him. Stupid sentiment, stupid Mary, stupid John. This was all wrong.

Sherlock felt something hit his ankle, he looked down to see Lestrade gesturing with his head.

"Down here, now."

Sherlock dropped to his knees beside John, vaguely aware that the paramedics had arrived and that John didn't seem conscious of his presence.

Mary was breathing again. For a second Sherlock thought he might have misjudged the situation, but then he saw her eyes. She put her hand on his arm and Sherlock thought of how many trips to the dry cleaners he'd need to get the blood out of his coat. Still, he kept eye contact with her, mesmerised by the essence of everything that had been Mary Watson fading and dying, like someone switching the lights off in a room one by one.

"Love him for me Sherlock," she gasped and then her eyes rolled back in her head and she exhaled, her last breath rasping in her chest.

Sherlock found himself shoved to the floor for the second time that night, as the paramedics began working on Mary, pushing glue and gauze into the wound and linking her up to all manner of machinery.

He was overcome with the urge to tell them that it would be pointless, but he heard John Watson, the one he always heard in his head when the real John wasn't around, saying, "a bit not good Sherlock" and wisely, he held his tongue.

But Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by the real John Watson wailing in despair, a cry that didn't even sound human and Sherlock didn't like that, he didn't like that at all. Sherlock Holmes scrambled to his feet and walked hastily from the theatre with his hands clasped over his ears.

Sally Donovan gasped as he dashed past her and was about to say something, but she too was shocked by the noise she could hear John making.

Seconds later a gurney, containing the artificially respirated Mary Watson, burst out of the theatre, pushed by two paramedics, with a third operating the defibrillator, making her body arc up every few seconds, as they tried to restart her heart.

This was closely followed by Greg Lestrade half supporting, half dragging an insensible John Watson through the doors, blood splattered over his t-shirt. Sally thought briefly how she'd never seen John in a t-shirt before and how he still looked physically fit from his army days and rather handsome. Then she considered what a stupid thing that was to ponder, when the man was clearly beyond distraught and his wife was dying. He was still making that awful noise, a toneless wailing, punctuated by hiccoughing sobs.

"Inside" Greg said, bundling him into a police car, as the ambulance roared away.

"Sally, sort out the mess in there" Greg yelled, as he leapt into the driver's seat and set off in pursuit of the ambulance.

Donovan sighed shakily and crossed herself. She didn't often give thought to her beliefs, truth be told she wasn't particularly religious, but she'd been raised a Catholic and certain habits died hard. She prayed now that Mary Watson would live through this, because she wasn't sure how much more John's poor heart could take; he was such a good man and awful things kept happening to him.

"Tommo, Simons, you're with me." She said, turning to the police constables who'd arrived as backup.

As she made her way towards the entrance of the theatre, she saw Sherlock, sat on the kerb, rocking back and forth.

"It's wrong, it's wrong, it's all wrong" He looked up as she approached.

"What's all wrong Freak?" But Sally's voice held none of it's usual malice, she was too shaken by what had happened.

"It was just to find the drugs, I didn't know those dealers would be there, the rest of the gang left London. I'd never have let her come if I'd known. How did I not know? Stupid, stupid. It's all wrong Sally, how do I make it right again? John, where's John? He'll know!"

Sally felt a lump in her throat. She'd always assumed that seeing Sherlock Holmes frantic like this would be a gleeful moment for her. One she could take back to the Yard and laugh about. 'The Freak finally cracked, he is human after all.' But instead she found herself frightened by it and full of pity.

"PC Thompson, on second thoughts, you need to drive Sherlock to Kings A&E. When you get there, I want you to make sure he gets to Lestrade, alright?"

"Yes ma'am" the junior officer said.

The way Sherlock allowed Tommo to pick him up and lead him to the car meant Sally had to take a moment, leaning against the wall of the theatre.

"Have you seen John?" he asked innocently of the man leading him by the arm, "I was just talking to him."

"I'm taking you to him now Mr Holmes." Tommo said, bundling Sherlock into the back of the car.

Sally covered her mouth to stifle the sob that escaped. She raised her eyes to the heavens, before pulling herself together and turning back to PC Simons, who was waiting to help her arrest the man in the theatre, clear up the body and seal off the scene for Anderson to process.

Sally was glad that Anderson hadn't arrived before Sherlock had left. She made a promise to herself, never to breathe a word of what she'd witnessed tonight to him.


	3. Chapter 3

PC Thompson manoeuvred a pliant Sherlock through the foyer of the hospital. He'd spent the last few minutes trying not to react, as the consulting detective had told him that the long hours he was spending at work were already proving detrimental to his new marriage, judging by the state of the creases in his trousers and the remnants of his packed lunch. By the time he'd grabbed Sherlock by the arm, to lead him into the hospital, he was itching to punch him in the face.

"Can you tell me where DI Lestrade is?" He practically begged, rather than asked.

The nurse on reception looked bored, as if nothing coming through the A&E department was more important than the soduku puzzle in her magazine. To be fair, thought Tommo, if the selection of drunks and reprobates cluttering up the waiting room were anything to go by, not looking patients in the eye had become an exercise in self-preservation. She waved her hand towards a side room.

"Friends and relatives over there. Lestrade's in the first room."

"You'll get the sack if they find out you're siphoning supplies." Sherlock said calmly.

The nurse did look up then, shock painted on her face.

"Who the fu…?"

"Come'on you."

Tommo dragged Sherlock by the arm, towards the rooms off reception. If he stood and listened to how Sherlock knew the nurse was stealing, he'd probably have to investigate her theft and, judging by the murderous look she was giving Sherlock, her assault on the consulting detective; that was paperwork he could do without after tonight.

"Don't you want to know …?"

"Nope!" Tommo said, practically throwing him through the door. "DI Lestrade? A pain in the arse, courtesy of Sergeant Donovan." With that PC Thompson was gone.

Lestrade was sat beside a hunched John Watson, a comforting hand on his back. There were two untouched cups of tea and a mound of wet, bloodied paper towels on the table in front of them, which Greg had evidently used to clean John's hands. Lestrade looked up at Sherlock with red rimmed eyes, as the consulting detective entered the room.

"She's breathing again, they've got her in surgery." He practically whispered the news, as if talking might set John off wailing again.

"Sit" he said, gesturing to the seats opposite. They sat for a while in silence, but Sherlock kept fidgeting, opening his mouth as if to say something, then thinking better of it.

John was still staring at the floor, not crying, not moving, hardly even breathing. Sherlock could see him muttering under his breath though.

John Watson was praying.

Oh, how disappointing, his supposedly rational best friend turning to a mythical being for support. Sherlock opened his mouth again and went as far as to take a breath to speak this time, when Lestrade's head shot up and his eyes fixed him with a penetrating stare.

"Sherlock, I want you to go to your mind palace and stay there until we get news. No talking and no bloody thinking, right?"

Sherlock could have argued, he wanted to, but the look of despair and fear on Greg's face stopped him. He closed his mouth with an audible click and sat back, shutting his eyes and trying to find something in his head to focus on.

Sherlock was walking along the corridor of his mind palace and being pulled towards a door. He'd wanted to find his way to the laboratory, where he'd previously synthesised a compound that behaved like helium; if he could remember in which order he'd completed the combustion, he could give the formula to Mycroft. They might offer him the Nobel Prize for Science again, which he'd obviously take great pleasure in turning down, to spite his brother.

However, his hand was on the doorknob of another room, before he could even find his way to the lab. Since his return from the dead, he found himself coming to this room more often; he opened the door.

John was fresh out of the shower and in his dressing gown, he turned to him from the chair by the fire, as Sherlock walked in.

"Hey, I made tea." John said softly, with a smile, indicating two mugs on the table beside the chair.

"I'm sorry John, I didn't know they'd be there, I didn't want her to get hurt."

"It's alright Sherlock, I forgive you."

"What? Just like that? That's not normal John."

"We're not normal, Sherlock. Besides, there's nothing to forgive, she wanted to come along, I let her. If anything, it's my fault."

"I should go back and do this properly, you'll hate me otherwise." Sherlock could feel a lump in his throat and his mouth turning down at the corners. Interesting, he didn't expect that reaction from himself; the thought of John hating him was making him want to cry.

"No, stay. I'm not ready for that yet. You saw me back there, I can't take anything in right now. So tell me here Sherlock, I'll listen to you here. I'm here for you now, nobody else, just you, always you." John smiled and Sherlock relaxed.

"Lestrade says I need to be quiet for a while and not think. But I can't seem to clear my mind John."

"Then come here." John raised his hand and held it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock walked over, took John's hand and found himself pulled down. He knelt on the rug at John's feet and put his head in the doctor's lap.

John began stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair, massaging his scalp and running his thumbs around the edges of his face and the back of his neck. The consulting detective sighed and let sensory information overtake rational thought. The fabric of John's dressing gown against his face was wonderfully soft, the slightly calloused skin of John's fingertips tickled slightly, sending waves of pleasure through his nerve endings. John's scent was comforting, like the air of a summers day. His skin bore the smell of his citrus shower gel and the metallic tang of his tan; it smelt like home.

John whispered to him in this room and it made Sherlock feel strange inside. It was a change from the sarcasm and reprimands he usually received from the doctor; Sherlock liked it. Sometimes, he wondered how John might react to a kiss. Not the type of kiss that was prelude to sex, just something that would connect them more deeply and then Sherlock might also find out how John tasted. However, the consulting detective never dared do this, even in his mind palace; John might take it the wrong way and get upset and that would break the illusion.

"Is this ok Sherlock?"

"S'fine, s'good," the consulting detective murmured, snuggling further into John's lap and wrapping his arms around his blogger's waist.

"You're a good man you know, amazing, fantastic. You should let me do this more often, help calm you down. I care about you so much Sherlock. Don't go back to the drugs to clear your mind, just let me do this for you."

"I care about you too," Sherlock murmured back.

Sherlock froze then, tensed up, had he really just revealed that? What would John say? He'd freak out wouldn't he? He'd …

He felt John raising his chin then and his bloggers face was just centimeters from his own. This might be an illusion, but Sherlock still couldn't look John in the eye after revealing his feelings.

"It's ok to express sentiment to me Sherlock. I love you, you idiot," John whispered and kissed him on the forehead. Sherlock was awestruck, but his surprise lasted just a few seconds.

Suddenly he was brought back to the hospital room by Lestrade shaking him and a stranger, a doctor, speaking from the doorway. John was on his feet, his left hand shaking uncontrollably.

"We got her through the surgery, but the bullet caused a lot of damage to the artery. Closing the initial wound, caused a build up of pressure elsewhere and an aneurysm, we sorted that, only to have others spring up and begin leaking. I'm so very sorry Doctor Watson, but you know what that means. There's nothing more we can do."

Greg was there once more, holding John up bodily. This time, however, the army doctor wasn't making a sound, just staring blankly into space, his whole body trembling.

"Have you removed the foetus?" Sherlock said, getting to his feet with a sense of urgency in his voice. "It'll give you better access to the artery and you could buy her some time with an artificial graft."

"Yes we tried that" the doctor looked faintly annoyed at the questioning of his medical skills. "There's not enough tissue integrity for a stent and …"

The doctor was interrupted by the sound of John retching into the sink and Lestrade shouting.

"For Christ's sake Sherlock!" The next thing the consulting detective knew, he was on his backside for the third time that night, Lestrade's fist having connected with his nose. Hot blood gushed down over his mouth and onto his shirt. Lestrade angrily pushed a bundle of paper towels into his hand, before going over to a sobbing John.

The doctor in the doorway looked confused.

"It appears only your team and sodding clever dick over there knew about the baby." Lestrade said angrily. "But don't worry, her husband knows now," he finished, sarcastically, as he rubbed John's back.

"I was … I was trying to help?" Sherlock tried.

Lestrade looked at him in disbelief, shaking his head.

"Right" the doctor blanched, probably thinking John, or Greg would put in a complaint about poor and insensitive communication. "Well, rather than get into the medical specifics, what I came to say was that Mary's heart is still beating, but she's losing blood and it's slowing, so if John would like to say goodbye, I suggest he does it now."

The doctor held the door open and a stricken John Watson limped forwards, still supported by Lestrade.

"Are the rest of her family on the way?" The doctor asked quietly.

"I've called them," Lestrade said defeated, "but they live in Surrey. I don't think they'll get here in time, even in the police car I sent."

Greg turned to look at Sherlock, still sat confused and bleeding on the floor.

"Come and pay your respects." Lestrade spat, looking for all the world like a furious father, reprimanding his child.

For the second time that night, Sherlock obeyed without question, even though every part of him wanted desperately to return to the John Watson sat in the chair, by the fire, in his head.

That John Watson was the broken soldier that Sherlock had fixed after his return from Afghanistan. That John Watson had craved exhilaration, not empathy and Sherlock could provide the former without even trying. That John Watson had been content to exist with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street and had been keen to put his best friend first in everything; they'd been like a couple of schoolboys on a permanent vacation - inseparable, incorrigible, indestructible. But the John Watson walking in front of him now was a broken man, with a life and emotions that the consulting detective couldn't even understand, let alone know how to begin fixing.

Sherlock felt a tearing sensation in his chest and his limbs became heavy. He pushed the paper towels more firmly against his bleeding nose and told himself that the watering of his eyes was down to his injury and not due to the fact that he could see the light around John fading and dying, just like the light in Mary's eyes.

For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes had no idea what to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter has a bit of bad language, but I think it's justified in terms of the story and after checking the rules, I don't think I need to up the rating (I do get paranoid about these things). Anyway, thanks for the kind reviews so far. On with the angst.**

They reached the operating theatre, where the doctor stopped them just outside the doors.

"We didn't want to risk moving her from here to the ICU, in case her heart stopped on the way. But it's private in here and you can take as long as you need Doctor Watson. I'm so terribly sorry that we weren't able to do more for her."

The doctor squeezed John's arm sympathetically, but he didn't seem to notice, as he pushed his way through the doors, his sobs subsiding into the noises children made when they'd cried themselves breathless. Sherlock went to follow him, but Greg threw an arm across his chest, blocking his path.

"Thank you doctor, we'll keep an eye on him." Greg said, gratefully. The doctor nodded and left, Greg looked at Sherlock. "Just John right now, I don't think having you there will help matters, do you?"

The theatre seemed cold. John had never really noticed that about operating theatres before, how clinical and indifferent they seemed to life or death when, after losing a loved one, you wanted chaos, you wanted the world to sit up and take notice, to scream and shout with you.

At least when Sherlock had 'died', the media had been in uproar and others had railed at the injustice and tragedy alongside John. Mary was just an ordinary woman. If the media took any notice of her death, it would be in relation to Sherlock Holmes.

Bloody Sherlock, who couldn't even let him have the knowledge of his child's existence to himself, who had to rip John's grief from him like ripping a plaster from a wound, like everything that man did in his life, abrupt, callous and selfish.

Now here John was, watching the kindest heart he'd known slow and stop; the existence of the only woman he'd ever truly loved snuffed out in the split second it took for a bullet to fly through the air. John touched his left shoulder, feeling the scar beneath and thinking how, almost seven years ago, he should have died on a battlefield far from home; life was indiscriminate and cruel.

John pulled up a stool to the side of the operating table and sat down. They'd done a great job of cleaning Mary up; if the surroundings hadn't given the game away, John would say that not a drop of Mary's blood had been spilt in here. She was covered up to her chest by sterile sheets, the machines were breathing for her and the monitor, although the staff had turned off the sound, was counting her slowing heartbeat and dropping blood pressure. John thought he might have a couple of minutes at the most.

He picked up her hand, it was cold, so he kissed it briefly, before covering it with his other hand; Mary hated being cold.

"I …" John's voice almost deserted him straight away, but he took a deep breath, he needed to get this out, "I just found out, about the baby, you would have been a wonderful mother. God, could you imagine our child?" John smiled, even though hot tears were streaming down his face.

"I think it would have been a girl and she'd have been as beautiful and as clever as you and just as competitive and headstrong. She would have made me the proudest father alive. I'd have done anything for you and that child, Mary."

John bowed his head and gathered himself.

"I was so glad that you were finally getting along with Sherlock, you knew how much that meant to me. Thank you so much babe, for sticking with the life I led, for saving me when I had nothing left, for making me so happy. But, I don't know …"

John's voice faltered and he sobbed for a few seconds before steeling himself to say more.

"But I don't know if I'll have anything left to live for now. I don't think I can forgive him, Mary, not after this. You'd yell at me for that, I know you would. You were the one who told me to forgive him when he came back. You always saw the good in people, but that's because you brought out the best in everyone around you. You didn't deserve this. A stupid drugs bust. Why did you even come tonight? If he hadn't wound you up so much … if I'd never have met you ... No, I shouldn't speak like that, not now."

John squeezed her hand, it seemed to be getting colder.

"Remember our wedding day? You looked so beautiful, you always did to me, but that day, I couldn't take my eyes off you. You lit up the room, everyone adored you and I was so happy, so bloody stunned that even after meeting Sherlock you still wanted to be my wife. And you told me not to think like that, not to imagine that I meant nothing to people compared to him. You said that Sherlock saw something remarkable in me and that you saw it too. You said that because he risked his life to save me, that made him a hero in your eyes. I loved you for that, Mary, for taking us both on, like we were two halves of a whole person."

John sighed and a frown crossed his brow.

"But now I'm not so sure. You were the half I needed, I think he was just the half I got stuck with when I had nothing else. Do you hear me Mary, I _need_ you, other people _need_ you. What am I going to tell your family? Who am I going to get to understand me like you did? There isn't anybody else. We were going to have a family. We were going to grow old together. You deserved so much more."

John's voice was becoming frantic.

"I didn't want to do this, I didn't want to break down in front of you, but I don't want to lose you, it's not fair, it's not fair …" John gave in to the tears and put his head on Mary's chest, sobbing. One hand came up to tangle in her hair, the other still holding her hand.

John wasn't sure how long he lay there sobbing, but he was murmuring, "I'm sorry, I love you", over and over, when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He turned to see Lestrade right behind him and Sherlock standing some distance away.

"She's gone mate" Lestrade said, tearfully, but gently, gesturing to the monitors which showed a flat line where the heartbeat should have been.

John stood up and dashed at his tears, before leaning over and kissing Mary's face several times. Greg found himself thinking of the fairytales, where the handsome prince would come along and revive his princess with true love's kiss; if only that were true. There was nothing whatsoever romantic about watching a grief stricken husband kissing his dead wife's mouth, whilst it was filled with an ugly ventilation tube, still breathing air into her lifeless corpse.

"Do you want us to leave you alone for a bit longer?" Lestrade asked softly.

"I … I don't know … I can't go home Greg … don't make me go home … but I can't stay here … I … I …"

"Sshhhh, ok John, we'll sort something out. We just wanted to come in and say goodbye."

Greg squeezed John's arm gently and then stepped forward, leaning down, he kissed Mary on the forehead.

"Sleep tight angel," he whispered.

"I'll ask if there's anything you need to sign before you go, alright?" What Greg really meant was, 'I'll ask them to turn off the machines and pronounce her dead', but there was no way he could bring himself to say that. John nodded as Lestrade made his way out of the room and down the corridor, looking for a doctor.

Sherlock approached John tentatively. His hand was slightly outstretched and it was obvious he wanted to touch his blogger and offer some comfort, but he wasn't sure how.

"John, I …"

"Just tell her goodbye and then go, Sherlock, I can't speak to you right now."

Sherlock swallowed nervously and sidestepped John to get to Mary. He repeated Greg's action of kissing her on the forehead, noting how the cold of death quickly felt different to the temperature of a cold, living, human body and how the loss of circulation had caused the skin to begin loosening over the bones. Sherlock couldn't say anything to the corpse, it would be foolish, it was just a lump of flesh now after all.

However, on standing, he turned to John.

"I'm sorry. It was my fault."

He saw John tense up, even though he wasn't looking directly at Sherlock.

"What?"

"It was my fault she got shot, John. She died because I wasn't good enough. I should have anticipated that they'd be there." Sherlock's voice faltered slightly, he could feel himself frowning.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't you fucking dare make this about you." John was looking at him now and his eyes were blazing with anger.

"I'm not. I'm just saying sorry."

"You can't let me have one moment, can you, just one bloody moment that's something to call my own. YOU told me about my child, YOU tell me that it's YOUR fault she's dead, I find myself talking to her about YOU in her last moments, even her dying words were to YOU and she was MY wife, Sherlock. She was MY wife!"

John could feel the tears running down his face again, but they were angry tears now.

"Well what do you want me to say John?" Sherlock's voice was raised now too, signaling his frustration, this wasn't how apologies were supposed to go.

"How about, 'I'm sorry for your loss'? It's what normal people say Sherlock."

"I'm not normal though am I?"

"No you're not, you're a fucking freak and I should have listened to Sally Donovan all those years ago."

John noted the look of hurt on Sherlock's face with satisfaction.

"What are you saying?"

"What am I saying? I'm saying Sherlock that if I hadn't met you, you wouldn't have faked your death to save my life, I wouldn't have met Mary and she wouldn't be laying there dead right now. So, I blame you for this, Sherlock and I know that's irrational and I know that makes me an idiot, but it's how I feel right now and I want you to leave, before I do something stupid."

Sherlock sneered, seemingly disgusted by the illogical emotions of his blogger. He began advancing on John menacingly, his voice low and threatening.

"If I recall, _you_ were the one who thought I was brilliant, _you_ were the one who followed me everywhere like a lost puppy and decided to write about me, _you_ were the one who fed my ego and got Moriarty interested, _you_ were the one who mourned me and made yourself all pathetic, so that she fell in love with you, _you_ were the one who let her come along to crime scenes. If you want to blame someone for her death, John, blame yourself."

'Strange,' thought Sherlock, 'how I should end up on the floor four times in one night. I have to work on retaining better balance when surprised'. As it was, the sensation of John smashing his fists into Sherlock's face made any further thought, on the part of the consulting detective, quite difficult.

Sherlock felt a splitting sensation throughout his head, intense pressure behind his eyes, a ringing in his ears and then pain, blooming across the centre of his face; he could taste blood in his mouth and it was running down the back of his throat. He tried to draw a better breath, but the side of his chest felt like someone had stabbed him, it took him a second to realise that this was where John's knee had connected, as they'd tumbled to the floor and a couple of ribs had probably cracked as a result.

Sherlock coughed and began choking, as the former soldier grabbed his throat and started shaking him, screaming profanities.

"Heartless bastard … fucking freak … stupid tosser …"

Sherlock felt a wave of sadness, as the world began to go dark around him. John hated him so much that he was prepared to kill him. This wasn't how things were meant to be; he must have said something really not good this time.

Suddenly, the world flooded back in and John was crouched on the floor beside him, sobbing, as Sherlock gasped for air.

The doors opened and Sherlock heard Greg cry out in surprise.

"Jesus! What the … John? Are you alright?"

'What a strange thing to ask', Sherlock thought. He was the one bleeding and half unconscious on the floor and clearly John had been the one responsible for his injuries. Did Lestrade hate him as much as John did now?

"Help him Greg," John's voice shook, "I think he hit his head on the way down."

'Of course', Sherlock thought, that was why the back of his head hurt so much. He looked up to the corner of the metal units, where he saw a blood stain and some hair, matted against the chrome.

"Fractured skull, sorry John," was the last thing Sherlock murmured before the world went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

"A fractured skull, concussion, a fractured eye socket, a broken nose, a tooth knocked loose and five stitches in his lip. Oh, and I almost forgot about the two cracked ribs. You really did a number on him John. Better than most criminals have achieved in fact. Funny isn't it, how he didn't fight back."

John lay in the hospital bed, woozy from the sedation he'd had overnight, but conscious enough to pay attention to a detached sounding Mycroft Holmes. Hot tears were rolling down his face and wetting the pillow either side of him, as he stared up towards the ceiling, refusing to make eye contact with the elder Holmes brother.

"We won't be pressing charges, of course. Frankly, I'm surprised you lasted this long without rearranging his face. And then obviously there was your emotional state to take into account; I am very sorry for your loss, John."

Mycroft paused and sighed. John could see the man's hand hovering, in his peripheral vision, but then he must have thought better than to touch John and he placed it back by his side.

"I thought you'd like to know that Sherlock has suffered no lasting physical damage." John made an odd choking sound. Mycroft knew exactly where to hurt him, by implying that John's attack would affect Sherlock emotionally.

"He will be kept in the hospital for observation and then Mrs Hudson has kindly agreed to take care of him until he's back on his feet. Of course, he has asked for you, as his physician and his friend, to accompany him back to 221B. I have explained that he must be prepared for the possibility of your departure; I will fully understand if you do not wish to move back in with him John. This kind of event, well, it has a way of drawing down the curtain on a friendship, don't you agree?"

Mycroft waited for a response from John, but none was forthcoming, so he continued.

"I have vouched for your mental state to the doctors and your therapist has been in contact with the ward, to give them your psychiatric history. Once you've been assessed by your doctor, you'll be free to go." John looked over at Mycroft then, puzzled as to why he should help him like this.

"Oh I am not a cruel man, whatever you may think of me John." Mycroft said, reading his expression. "You are clearly not mentally unstable, you just lost control in a situation that would have broken the best of people. I am angry that you have hurt my brother. But I am satisfied that there is no lasting damage and that your own guilt over the matter will be sufficient punishment. And, of course, as I have mentioned, you have been through enough hell for several lifetimes since your return from the war."

John wished he could stop crying, but the tears just kept rolling down his face; his eyes and throat burnt from keeping his sobbing silent. Hell was right; John just wanted to sleep and forget the last 24 hours ever happened. He wished for the ground to swallow him up, he wished for plagues to be visited upon him, he wished for death, anything but this guilt and this pain; his chest hurt with the effort of containing it all.

Mycroft dropped a note onto the unit beside John's head.

"This is Sherlock's room. I've told them to let you in, if you should visit. He'll probably be unconscious until tomorrow; they've sedated him, because he kept trying to get out of bed to look for you."

John made another choked noise at the thought of Sherlock, asking for him and confused by his absence. The man was like a trusting puppy and somehow he'd imprinted on John; nothing the army doctor said, or did could drive him away.

Mycroft walked to the door then, hesitated and walked back.

"I don't usually resort to asking favours for him John, God knows he'd try the patience of a saint, but he has worked so hard to take on board everything you've taught him. You are, you were, his only friend. If you could see your way to giving him another chance …"

Mycroft waited, but John didn't trust himself to respond without breaking down.

There was a sigh and then a business-like, "Take care John." And with that, Mycroft was gone. John buzzed for the nurse.

"Yes Doctor Watson, what is it?" John felt bad for calling her, she looked exhausted. Working on the psychiatric ward probably got the most hardened professionals down at times.

"How much longer will the doctor be?" John's voice was hoarse from all the crying he'd been doing.

"At least another few hours I should think, he has a couple of meetings this morning."

"Can you put me to sleep again please? I can't stop crying." The nurse sighed, compassion in her eyes.

"I suppose I could increase your dose slightly, but no telling the doctor, ok?" She smiled as she turned the dial on his IV and in less than a minute, John felt the world go mercifully dark.

It was late afternoon when John was finally allowed to leave, on the condition that he stay with a friend, or relative. John couldn't call Harry, she had problems enough of her own. Besides, staying with her would probably cause him to have a complete breakdown, as he'd be the one looking after her. So he called Greg and asked to stay with him. His wife had left him for good last year and he was living alone, so John knew he'd have the run of the house, whilst Greg was at work.

Lestrade turned up just before 5pm. The two men made their way down the corridor, to the lifts, in silence. John felt like everything was under water, his senses dulled by medication and grief, his eyes still puffy from crying. He clutched the piece of paper Mycroft had given him in his hand. In the lift he turned to Greg.

"Mycroft wants me to see him."

"Do you think that's a good idea?" Lestrade asked, concerned.

"He's sedated."

"Well, I suppose …"

"And I want … I _need_ to tell him I'm sorry, Greg. Even if he can't hear me say it."

"Ok," Lestrade said softly, "I'll wait outside the room for you."

John felt as though someone had punched him in the gut as soon as walked through the door. Sherlock's face was a mess, black, blue and swollen, with angry gashes beside his left eye, the left side of his mouth and across his nose. But strangely, the thing that made John most ashamed, was that his hair had been shaved, in order to stitch the cut on his head. Without his mop of curls, he looked younger somehow, like a vulnerable child.

"What have I done to you?" John whispered. He thought he was all cried out, he'd felt numb on the way from the psych ward to here, but now he could feel his eyes burning with tears again.

He made his way to Sherlock's bedside and sat on the chair, reaching out to take the consulting detective's hand.

"I could have killed you." he whispered, his voice shaking. "I don't remember hitting you more than once. I just found myself with my hands around your throat. God, Sherlock …"

John let a sob escape him. He lowered his face to the bed and placed Sherlock's hand on the back of his head. He stayed like that for a while; it felt like a gesture of forgiveness, even though John knew he'd arranged it.

"Why did you say those things? Did you want me to hurt you?" John lifted his head and brought Sherlock's hand around to his lips, kissing it softly, in a ghastly parody of his farewell to Mary.

"You're all I've got left now, but I don't know what to do. Mycroft thinks you'll forgive me. I don't think I can forgive myself."

He laid Sherlock's hand back down and brought his own up to stroke the younger man's short hair, gently.

"When you said it was your fault, it scared me, because that's what I'd been thinking and I wondered if I'd ever be able to stop blaming you. But I don't blame you, not really and I know you don't believe that I'm to blame either. She wanted to come along, we should have stopped her, but there are so many things we should do in life that we don't. How were we to know things would turn out like that?"

John looked for any acknowledgement from Sherlock, but the swollen eyes stayed shut and his breathing stayed even. John thought it might have been the most peaceful he'd ever seen his friend, had it not been for his injuries. He wished he could do something to take them away, but just like with Mary, he felt both responsible and utterly helpless. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and continued to speak.

"I had a go at you for making your apology self-centred, but when Mycroft said today that he was sorry for my loss, I realised something - people apologise to make themselves feel better all the time. You're just more honest about it than everyone else. You tried Sherlock and I dismissed you. I hurt you. We were trying to hurt each other. I just didn't have the words, so I used my fists. But I've got no excuses. I'm so sorry."

John laughed, mirthlessly, through his tears then.

"There you are, a self-centred apology. It's not enough is it."

John raised Sherlock's hand to his lips, one last time and stood up. There was a dull ache in his chest that made his muscles simultaneously tense and weak. Mary's loss was a raw, tearing grief. The thought that he and Sherlock might never be what they were, was a sadness that drained the life from John's whole body.

"I don't know when I'll see you again, but, stay safe." John placed his hand gently over Sherlock's heart, felt it beating, then left the room.

In his dream, Sherlock was trying to open a familiar door, but it was locked. He sank down with his back to it and began to shout John's name over and over again.

John stayed with Greg for five weeks, he tried to keep busy, working out on the gym equipment in Greg's garage, cleaning until Lestrade's house was spotless and reading every book he could get his hands on. In the evenings, if Greg made it home, the two men would put a film on and drink in relative silence. Greg usually fell asleep on the sofa after one beer anyway, exhausted from work. John began to see why his wife had left him, the man's hours were so long and irregular, it was almost impossible to sustain a relationship.

Every night in bed, John would speak to Mary and end up crying himself into an uneasy sleep. Although, by the end of the second week, the tears began drying up and John started to feel as numb as when he'd returned from Afghanistan. He recognised the symptoms of depression; he didn't want to get help, he wanted to suffer, he felt as though moving on would be betraying Mary's memory. However, he was taking the medication they'd put him on at the hospital and at Greg's insistence, he was having weekly meetings with Ella. For the most part, John sat in silence, but he'd been here before, his therapist knew it would only be a matter of time before her patient opened up.

Mary's funeral came and went; John didn't go. Her family weren't speaking to him, blaming him for her death and he felt unable to face them. He resolved to visit her grave, but not yet, he couldn't bring himself to do that just yet. They'd buried the child with her. No inscription marked it's passing, it had been too early to determine the sex. Neither could John sort out anything to do with their house. Greg arranged a solicitor, who was doing all that for him. John didn't care about the money from the sale, if her family contested it, he'd let them have it. All he wanted were their photographs and her wedding ring.

At the end of the fifth week, John received a visitor. It wasn't who he expected. Greg had the Saturday off and they were going to the races for the day. John was sat lacing his boots in the kitchen, when Greg walked in, followed by Molly Hooper.

She smiled shyly at Lestrade, who looked her up and down appreciatively. If John ever surfaced from this interminable grief, he thought he'd have to try setting those two up on a date.

"I'll leave you to it." Greg said, heading outside to wait for John by the car.

John found it hard to look Molly in the eye. She adored Sherlock; she'd helped him fake his death without question and taken care of him during some of his three years absence. John thought she might have come here to berate him for what he'd done.

"He wants you to come home. I want you to come home. Don't hate him John, he doesn't deserve that." Molly said, pain evident in her voice. "And … and, I'm sorry, you know, about Mary. I liked her." She added, nervously.

"I'm not staying away because I hate him Molly. I just don't think we can get back to what we had. I can't stop thinking about what I did. I'm not the same person."

"Yes you are John." Molly stepped forwards and placed her hand on his arm. "you were out of your mind with grief that day, but that was a unique situation. Tragedy doesn't change a person, it just adds something to their character. I know that isn't pleasant and it isn't easy to adapt to, but you will adapt, John and eventually the grief fades."

John snorted derisively.

"If I had a pound for every time someone told me it'll get easier, I'd be a millionaire."

"But it's true, it will. I've lost people. I know. Remember how it was with Sherlock, you moved on."

"This is harder than that Molly, she was pregnant with our child." John swallowed the tears he could feel building and took some deep breaths.

"Is it though, is it really harder than seeing your best friend commit suicide and blaming yourself?"

"I … I'm not sure if I can remember … not since he came back … I'm not sure I want to remember."

"Exactly. Because Sherlock means as much to you as Mary did. She knew that. Lestrade told me what she said John. She told Sherlock to love you. You should let him. He wants to."

"I'm sorry Molly, I can't for one second believe that Sherlock said that."

"He doesn't have to. I see it in his eyes every day John. I've been helping Mrs Hudson take care of him. He's a nightmare. He's been trying to leave the flat to take cases since he came home from hospital and he keeps forgetting about his eye and pressing it up to the microscope, not to mention all the moaning he does about being bored. But the hardest thing for us is saying no, when he asks if you've been in touch. And sometimes he'll drift off into his head and come back saying your name and it breaks my heart to see his face when he realises you're not there. He misses you so much."

"He misses what I did for him."

"No, because we do everything for him and he still just wants you. Please, come home John. You miss him too. As lovely as Greg is, he's not your best friend. He doesn't understand you like Sherlock does."

"You mean he doesn't deduce me like Sherlock does. Only Mary understood me."

"Is that what you really think John? Because Sherlock might not understand your emotions, but I'm pretty sure that he understands exactly what you need, when you need it. I've seen the two of you have whole conversations without speaking. Maybe that's a better kind of understanding where you're concerned, John. Besides, I know you'll never stop being impressed by what he does." Molly added with a smile.

John smiled slightly, though his face still held the weight of his grief.

"You know what I see when I look at the two of you together?" Molly said shyly.

John looked for all the world like he was about to sigh and say 'not gay' for the thousandth time. But Molly stopped him with a raised hand.

"No, it's not the conclusion everyone else jumps to, it's so much purer than that. I see how you're two halves of a whole person. He gives you rationality, he stimulates your mind, you light up when you're around him and everyone's drawn to you, like you're the keeper of this great intellect and they have to ask your permission to use it. You give him emotion, you teach him how to be a better man, you give him this warmth that brings out something amazing in him. When you're together, it's like you're locked in this secret world and everyone else wishes they could be part of it. But even at the most basic level, John, you provide each other with someone to care about. The most reckless person is the man with nothing to lose; you have each other and that keeps you both alive."

"He has more than just me."

"No, he doesn't, not really, not someone who can influence him the way you can. He listens to you John, nobody else. I resigned myself long ago to the fact that I was nothing to Sherlock, not really. Since I helped him fake his death, I think he respects me a bit more, perhaps even counts me as one of his friends, such as they are, but you're his only _real_ friend John and if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have half the acknowledgment I get from him these days. So as long as you're there for him, I'm ok with that."

John sighed.

"I'll go and see him tomorrow."

"Thank you." Molly sighed in relief. "Now, get to the races, I think Greg's itching to put that first bet on." She turned and waved to Lestrade, who was pacing beside the car, scuffing his shoe on the gravel every so often. Both of them smiled, blushed and looked away. John smiled properly then. He definitely had to set the two of them up.

As they left, John considered that, for the first time since he'd known her, he was glad to have spoken to Molly Hooper. He felt as though he were swimming upwards in this sea of grief and he could finally see some sunlight above the water.


	6. Chapter 6

John was nervous about returning to Baker Street. He'd said he'd just visit Sherlock, but Greg had persuaded him to take his stuff and try moving back in straight away.

"If you just visit and leave again, you'll convince yourself that you don't need to live there. As much as I enjoy having you around John, you don't belong here. Besides, people at the Yard are starting to talk."

"People do little else," John said with a wry smile. "Do you know something Greg, in the army, I was one of the straightest men there. I didn't even participate in the recreational stuff some of them got up to. I got the nickname Three Continents Watson for the women I laid. Why in god's name does everyone here think I'm gay?"

"I wouldn't worry about it mate, hanging around with Sherlock has a way causing this sort of talk."

"What, you as well?"

"When I met you, I'd known him for five years, I helped Mycroft keep him off the drugs, I used him every chance I got to aid my work, I spent hours listening to his amazing deductions, I used to enthuse about him to colleagues; eventually, people started to wonder why I was so in thrall to a man that everyone else hated."

"So, me, you, Mrs Hudson, and Molly, do you think we're the only ones who appreciate how brilliant he is?"

"No, everyone would be able to appreciate it, if they bothered to try; we're just the only ones with the patience to see past all that social ineptitude. To be honest John, even though I count him as a friend, I couldn't live with him. I don't know how you do it, but you do and, I don't know, he's good for you; you both seem to light up when you're around each other."

"Molly said that too." John mused quietly.

"Go home John."

So here he was, outside the door to their flat. He hadn't been here as a resident since before the fall. It felt strange. Mrs Hudson fussed around him as he put his suitcase back in the upstairs bedroom. He still hadn't seen Sherlock.

"I think he's doing an experiment dear." A sudden bang came from the kitchen.

"I'd say he's definitely doing an experiment." John added with a tense smile.

"Oh I'm so glad you're back dearie." Mrs Hudson hugged him and sniffled into his jumper. "I'm so, so sorry about … well … you know …" She pulled back and cupped John's face in her hands. "If you ever need to talk … I lost my husband. He might have been a murdering scumbag, but I still loved him … Oh dear …" She pulled back and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and John was torn between letting himself be mothered and laughing at hearing Mrs Hudson calling someone a 'murdering scumbag'.

He settled for a heartfelt "Thank you" and a kiss on her cheek, then closed the door to unpack, before making his way downstairs to Sherlock.

John wasn't sure what to expect. The last time he'd seen the consulting detective had been in the hospital with his face all messed up and his hair cut short. That image had been burned into his retinas, to the point where Sherlock's normal features were an indistinct blur.

So, when John opened the door and the consulting detective glanced up from his microscope, he had to take a step back.

In some ways he understood why people assumed anyone hanging around Sherlock had to be in love with him. His androgynous beauty was mesmerising, every move he made was like a snake hypnotising it's prey and once fixed with that penetrating stare, it was hard to look away.

Apart from some yellowed bruising, around his still slightly swollen left eye and a small scar beside his lip, which gave his face a roguish quality, his features were devoid of the damage John had wrought and his hair, although shorter than before, was beginning to resemble that familiar mop of unruly curls.

"Welcome home John," the consulting detective said, his deep voice reverberating around the small kitchen. John nodded and met Sherlock's eyes. Neither man looked away from the other for a good ten seconds. John thought Sherlock must be deducing him and waited for a diatribe about what he'd been up to for the past five weeks, but none was forthcoming.

"I made tea," Sherlock said finally, picking up a petri dish from the table and swapping it for the one beneath the microscope, before looking back into the lens.

"You never make tea," John said, walking cautiously into the kitchen.

"Well, today I did. I made tea."

And that was it, for the rest of the evening, Sherlock continued with his experiments, John drank tea, read the papers and watched TV and the silence was occasionally punctuated by whispering from Sherlock, to whatever cultures and chemicals he was studying, the odd fizz, or bang from certain compounds combusting and sometimes a rustling, as he sorted through papers, on which he was scribbling formulas and results.

At 11pm, John got up from the chair and stretched. "I'm off to bed, night Sherlock."

"Hmmm," Sherlock murmured, not looking up from his microscope.

John left the room and Sherlock looked up at the closed door. He sighed and felt the corners of his mouth turn down. His hands clenched into fists.

"He's broken, I've broken him, I've broken us, me, John, John, John, why won't you let me in?"

He slammed his fists onto the table and drew in a deep shuddering breath, before getting up, stalking over to the window and beginning to play his violin.

John sighed at the mournful music drifting up from the living room, sought out his earplugs from his bedside drawer and put them in as he climbed into bed.

So this was how it was going to be from now on. There were elephants marked grief, guilt and anger in their flat and they were going to ignore them. Perhaps Sherlock genuinely didn't even notice them. Had he deleted Mary's death and John's attack already? As John lay in bed, he felt like he was sinking those few feet back under water, that he'd managed to rise through during his five weeks with Greg.

'Tomorrow' he whispered, 'tomorrow I'll call Ella. This time, I'll talk.'

"From what you've told me about him John, I don't think it's because he doesn't feel anything. I think he's so used to burying what he does feel that he doesn't know what to do with the emotions you coax from him."

John sighed, they'd spent a fortnight at this now, Ella and the medication were helping massively with the grief John felt over Mary, he'd even managed to visit her grave, where Greg had waited in the car for him and he'd sat for an hour, talking to her and the baby and crying for his lost family.

However, whatever was going on with Sherlock was so much harder to get his head around and even Ella seemed to be getting frustrated with it. In the two weeks John had been back, they'd had a case that had lasted three days and during that time, in the company of others, hardly anyone had been able to tell things were different. Sherlock had asked John to do ridiculous things, like get a magnifier from his pocket and hold it to his eye, because he'd been busy with his hands and John had chided him for deducing too fast and not explaining for the benefit of everyone else. Both of them had run around London and enjoyed the chase and eventual capture of the killer. But Lestrade had noticed something was off and after they'd given their statements and were leaving the Yard, he stopped John at his office door. He waited until the consulting detective was out of earshot and said:

"That light you two had, it's not there John. Sort it out."

A couple of days after that, Sherlock had knocked his still healing eye against the microscope and cursed. The doctor had gotten up from his chair with a sigh, taken some arnica cream from the first aid kit in the cupboard and Sherlock had sat, tensely, as John had rubbed it gently around his eye.

"Right eye to the microscope, at least for another few weeks Sherlock."

John finished tending to the eye, when Sherlock spoke.

"Why can't I get into your room?"

"What?"

"Your room, it's locked, why won't you let me in?"

"My room doesn't have a lock on the door, what are you on about?" John was puzzled, but his building frustration with Sherlock's silence, since he'd returned, made his question sound more exasperated than anything else.

He virtually saw Sherlock withdraw back into himself.

"It doesn't matter John, forget I spoke."

"No, it does matter, it's the most you've said to me since I moved back in."

"It's fine, you wouldn't understand."

"Why, cos I'm an idiot?" Again, the question came out sharper than John had intended, which prompted an equally sharp dismissal from Sherlock.

"Yes, problem?"

"Oh, for god's sake, I'm going out." John spun on his heel and marched towards the door, grabbing his jacket on the way. "And mind that eye."

John cursed himself on the way down the stairs; even after being insulted by the stupid git, he was still looking out for his health.

What John didn't see was Sherlock sitting as still as a statue for the next ten minutes, staring sadly at the spot he'd last seen his flatmate.

That night John walked around the park, called in the pub alone for a pint, followed by another pint and then three large whiskeys and returned to the flat. There was no sign of Sherlock when he got in and the alcohol had made him maudlin. John went to his room, collapsed into bed and cried for his dead wife and, if he was honest, for his dying friendship.

So here he was, discussing Sherlock with Ella, for what felt like the millionth time.

"But how do I get us to talk? I feel so guilty about what I did, but even so, when I get angry with him, I think a small part of me blames him for ruining what we had. If I get him to discuss it and he starts being all detached and logical again, I'll say something to hurt him and then he'll just clam up. God, he's frustrating."

"And yet you stay John. Are you trying to punish yourself? Or does the good outweigh the bad?"

John smiled slightly.

"When we're working … when I'm watching him work, it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen. I'd stay for that, if nothing else. But there's more, stuff I can't even articulate in my own head. He makes me feel … alive, I guess."

"Tell him."

"Ha, you're joking right? Sherlock doesn't do sentiment, he'd probably bundle me out the door before I've even finished. Besides, we're blokes, you don't say that sort of thing to another bloke without sounding, well, gay for him."

Ella sighed and rolled her eyes at the stereotypical response from the military conditioned male.

"So you don't think he cares about you at all."

"I wouldn't say that. I think he _thinks_ he cares."

"He wanted you to come home though, didn't he John?"

"Molly told me he did, I think it's more like having a lost pet, he probably just missed having me to talk to when he was bored. Now he hardly acknowledges that I'm there."

"It seems to me John, that he's waiting for you. I think, from what you tell me about him, that he could get past what you did quite easily. You don't really believe that he's to blame for Mary's death, but he thinks that you believe it and he's scared by that. Too scared even to say sorry again, for fear that you might react badly and leave him for good. He's not a sociopath, whatever he might say."

"What is he then? Cos he sure as hell isn't normal."

"Define normal John."

"You know what I mean."

"And there's your problem. I might know what you mean, but does he? And do you know what _he_ means?"

"About what?"

"Let me put this another way. He has trouble feeling and understanding the emotions we take for granted, right?"

John nodded

"And you seem to think you have his behaviour, his responses to you, all figured out, right?"

John nodded again.

"Well what if you're both missing the meaning behind each other's behaviour. You're coming to me with all these problems about what he says and does, but they're all assumptions. There's sometimes a big difference between the things we say and the things we mean. Or between the things we do and the things we want to do. Maybe your relationship with Sherlock isn't so unique after all."

John began thinking then, about what Sherlock had said, about his room being locked, about not letting him in. Could it be… Surely not? Sherlock's mind palace was reserved for important things, not sitting around talking to John. Why would he dedicate a whole room to ordinary John Watson? But then hadn't Molly said he'd disappear into his head and start awake saying John's name? Christ! How was John supposed to confront this? He could hardly imagine bringing Sherlock his tea and saying, "By the way, do I have a room in your mind palace?"

John was broken out of his reverie by Ella's reassuring voice.

"Something has to give eventually, John. But I think you have to be the one to initiate it. Talk to him."

John was looking down, picking at his fingernails.

"I wouldn't know how," he muttered sadly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Last chapter. Thanks for the reviews and encouragement so far. I'm still pretty new to this fanfiction malarkey, so your kind words are appreciated. This chapter is slightly longer and slightly more sentimental than I originally intended, but in my head Holmes and Watson have always been soulmates, whether they're lovers, or friends, so they tend to write themselves. I hope I've captured the characters as depicted in the BBC version.**

**Anyway, on with the story …**

Despite his awkwardness about talking to Sherlock, John might have eventually gotten around to confronting his best friend about everything that had happened since Mary's death. But Mycroft Holmes wasn't patient enough to wait for a stoic ex-army doctor and a socially inept genius to gather their courage; he'd force their hand instead.

Naturally, Mycroft had put a surveillance camera back in the living room of 221B. Ordinarily he trusted John, but experience had taught him that even the best of men can pushed to a complete breakdown and he needed to be sure that his little brother was safe once more.

It was also a handy device for knowing when the two men were at home, so Mycroft chose a Saturday morning to visit. It had been exactly three months since Mary's death, so he knew John would be most vulnerable at this landmark.

He entered, to find John eating breakfast and Sherlock playing the violin. At the sound of the door opening, Sherlock let the bow slide messily off the strings and screech. This caused John to look up with a frown.

"Bloody hell Mycroft, have you heard of knocking?" John said, swallowing his mouthful of toast. Neither man looked pleased to see him. Even without the shadow of recent events, John had found it difficult to get past Mycroft's reckless decision to share Sherlock's life story with Moriarty. Still, Mycroft was used to living in a world where genuine friendship didn't exist; he worked for the British government after all.

"Stay sitting John, this isn't pleasant."

John frowned, his face growing pale. His first thought was that it had to be about Mary, or Harry. Mycroft wouldn't look so grave and be so concerned for him otherwise. Today was going to be hard enough, without something new to contend with. John found himself holding his breath.

Sherlock placed his violin carefully back in its case and stood by the window, slight apprehension in the tension of his shoulders, as he surveyed his brother and his blogger. Mycroft drew a piece of paper from his pocket.

"I'm afraid the manager of the hospital reviewed the CCTV from the operating theatre." John exhaled, his heart sinking. He didn't have to ask what Mycroft was talking about now, he knew and he couldn't take his eyes off the man.

"I have tried for the past few weeks to dissuade him from a serious course of action, but he is determined to make an example of you, John. He wishes to have you charged with GBH."

John wanted to speak. He wanted to say, 'It's not fair. I was grieving. I have PTSD from the war. How can this happen when Sherlock's forgiven me? Why do people keep setting me back like this? I'll be struck off the medical register.' But he couldn't say any of that, because he didn't want to cry again in front of Mycroft. So he just set his jaw and nodded once, breathing heavily and trying not to think of anything in particular. In his peripheral vision he thought he saw Sherlock trembling, his face contorted into a snarl.

"Ordinarily, I would fight this, but the manager is a personal friend of the Prime Minister and my hand is forced. I hope you don't mind, but I have overseen your representation, as I felt that it would be cruel to bring this to you sooner. Unfortunately, as your legal representative, I have been forced to apply for a restraining order on my brother's behalf."

Mycroft laid the document down in front of John.

"This forbids you from going within 200 yards of Sherlock. I'm sorry John, it was the best I could do."

John was trembling himself now.

" For … for how long?"

"At this juncture? Indefinitely. Depending on the outcome of your trial, we may be able to review it." Mycroft said sadly.

John felt his limbs grow oddly heavy. As strange and awkward as the last few weeks had been, he didn't want to leave 221B, he didn't want to leave Sherlock. This restraining order meant he wouldn't accompany him to crime scenes, wouldn't see him doing his experiments, wouldn't hear him play the violin, wouldn't see him sulking, wouldn't be able to care for him when he got injured, wouldn't be able to chide him when he got too clever, or praise him for the same, wouldn't be able to make him eat, or sleep, or make his tea. All those things, gone, just like that. Just like when he was dead, but worse, because Sherlock would be here, doing all those things, but John would be prevented from participating, all because of one moment of madness.

John was frozen to the spot, staring dumbstruck at Mycroft. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do, no options, no words, just an endless darkness, stretching ahead of him. He saw himself sinking down to the bottom of a familiar body of water, with the sunlight fading at the surface. It was cold down here, dark and silent. For the first time since he'd met Sherlock, he thought about putting his gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

"Aaaaaggghhhhh!" A cry of anguish brought him back to the present. Mycroft flinched, as a cup flew past his head and smashed against the wall, followed by a saucer, followed by a small table, then a music stand …

John was out of his chair and around the breakfast table before Mycroft had thought to move. In truth, the elder Holmes brother was astounded. He'd concocted this ruse to get John to crack and admit he wanted to stay at 221B and that he couldn't function without Sherlock in his life. He hadn't in his wildest dreams imagined that his younger brother would throw a tantrum, the likes of which Mycroft hadn't seen since Sherlock was three years old.

John grabbed Sherlock by the wrists, before he could fling another piece of furniture and tried to calm the hysterical man.

"They can't take you John, I won't let them take you." Sherlock had tears in his eyes, it made John's heart speed up to see how much he cared.

"Ssshhhh. We'll fight it. It's alright Sherlock, I'm not leaving you, they'll have to arrest us both first. Like before, remember? We'll go on the run."

John found himself practically wrestling his friend back to the wall, the taller man trying to release his hands. When he did break free, he grabbed John's face and brought his forehead to rest against the doctor's, taking deep breaths to try to calm down. John returned the gesture, taking Sherlock's face between his palms.

"But I want to stay here with you. This is our home. And I nearly had it, the key John. There wasn't one before, but there is now, there must be, because I can't get into your room. But if you stay here, I can find the key."

"What key? What room Sherlock?"

"In my head John, since I came back, even when you're not here, you are, but you have to want to be here too, but you haven't wanted that, because I can't get in and my head is buzzing all the time John and I need you to stop the buzzing and I want you to want to be here, you have to be here and they're going to take you away and I don't want you to hate me, please John." Sherlock's voice was a broken, childish whine as he fought his tears. "Please don't hate me."

"Woah, slow down, you're not making sense." John felt tears welling up to answer the detective's. "I don't hate you, I could never hate you." John stared into his eyes with a look that said 'believe me'. "Now, take a deep breath and explain to me again, about the room."

John was trembling, overwhelmed by the intensity of emotion radiating from a man who acted like a machine most of the time. However, this was why emotions weren't good for Sherlock, they clouded his mind, words and thoughts became jumbled and he couldn't articulate what he wanted to say. He wanted to explain in minute detail to John, about what he saw in his mind palace, but instead all that came out was:

"The room in my head, John, can't you see?"

Luckily, John was now convinced that what Sherlock was saying confirmed his earlier suspicions.

"Do I have a room in your mind palace?" John asked softly, stroking his thumbs over Sherlock's temples.

"Yes!" The consulting detective smiled then, the action causing a single tear to drip from his eye. John brushed it away with his thumb and felt his heart constrict with emotion.

"And since Mary's death you haven't been able to get in this room?"

"No!" Sherlock breathed the word sadly.

"What did you do before, to get in?"

"Nothing, the door was always open."

"Then it's still open Sherlock, because the key is our friendship and you've always had access to it. Your assumptions about my feelings have been keeping you out, but I need you to know that even when I'm angry with you, I will _never_ hate you and will _never_ stop being your friend."

"John!" Sherlock's eyes widened, "Why didn't I see that before? John, you're amazing."

The army doctor felt himself pulled into the tightest hug he'd ever experienced and the two men stood there, all sense of time disappearing, as they reconnected. In Sherlock's head, he ran down a corridor and flung open a door, to see John sat by the fire, in the middle of a familiar room.

"What took you so long?" His blogger asked with a smile.

A polite, but deliberate cough brought both men back to the present and they turned to see Mycroft, having cleared up everything Sherlock had thrown, gathering up the document. John suddenly felt sick; in his joy at reconciling with Sherlock, he'd forgotten what the initial commotion had been about.

"I'm very pleased to see you've both come to your senses." Mycroft said, with his usual detachment and command. "I apologise for the deception. There are no charges and no restraining order. All that is behind you John."

John was about to have a go at Mycroft, a wave of anger and relief washing over him. But then he thought about what Ella had said, 'something has to give eventually' and he considered that Mycroft meant well, however brutally he went about achieving his results.

"Brother," Sherlock said, in lieu of goodbye, but sounding a little chastened by what Mycroft had seen.

Mycroft smiled, turned on his heel and left the flat. After the private moment he'd just witnessed, he felt slightly awkward. It seemed he didn't know his brother, or John Watson, as well as he thought. All things considered, he'd turn the camera off, at least for tonight.

John turned back to Sherlock, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.

"So, in this room, what happens, is it just my stuff? Or am I there too?"

"You're there."

"Oh!"

"It's nothing … it's not like that John … at least …" John smiled, seeing Sherlock out of his depth like this was endearing.

"Tell me." He said, as though he were encouraging a child to explain a story they'd written.

"Well, my head gets so full that I can't separate things out. It starts to hurt, so I go to your room and you're in the chair by the fire and I kneel down at your feet and you… well you …" Sherlock avoided John's eyes, but took his hands and placed them in his hair. "You do this." He said quietly.

John smiled.

"Come over here."

He dropped his hands, took Sherlock's arm and steered him to the sofa, depositing him there as he turned the TV to face them. Then he sat down and gestured for the consulting detective to make himself comfortable.

Sherlock curled up on his side, scooted up the sofa and put his head in John's lap. John was momentarily shocked when Sherlock chose to face his body rather than the TV and wrapped his arms around his waist. But once he realised that things went no further than this, he gently rested his hands on the consulting detectives head and began massaging his scalp, taking care to avoid the slight lump that was still present from their fight.

Sherlock practically purred and John smiled, he could easily be stroking a cat. Still, if people saw them now, they'd give them enough ammunition to talk for years.

"It doesn't bother me, if it doesn't bother you, John" came the voice, reverberating against John's middle.

"How the hell did you know …?"

"You tensed up. Clearly you're thinking about what other people will make of this. Personally, I don't think it's any of their business."

"You're right, it isn't."

They stayed like that for a while, John watching crappy daytime TV and Sherlock dozing quietly, as John massaged his scalp. But John couldn't shake the feeling that now would be the best time to talk things through, so he gathered courage.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly, in case the consulting detective had gone to sleep.

"Hmmm?"

"I'm so sorry for what I did to you. I feel like an abusive partner when I say this, but it won't happen again."

"It's ok, I've deleted it, John. I probably deserved it anyw …"

"Stop right there. No you didn't, nobody ever, ever deserves to be treated that way for something they say, no matter how much of a dick they're being."

"It doesn't matter, John" Sherlock said, turning to look up at his blogger.

"No, it matters to me. I need to say this, whilst you're awake and listening this time." Sherlock smiled, realising that John must have visited him in the hospital.

"The way I acted afterwards, staying away, not being able to talk to you properly, wasn't because I hated you, Sherlock. It was because I scared myself. I was terrified that I could have done that to you, someone I … well, you know … someone I care about."

Sherlock looked at him oddly, but he was listening, which was something.

"It's because you're so much a part of me, Sherlock and you see everything. So when you started pulling thoughts from my head, just after she'd gone, I couldn't take it; when I was hurting you, I was trying to hurt myself. But that's not letting me off the hook. It was so wrong of me. It's the worst thing I've ever done. I don't want you to delete this Sherlock."

"So you want me to remember, in order to punish you with the knowledge every time we argue?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"I refuse, John. Because that will make you awkward around me for the rest of our lives and I don't want that."

John continued stroking Sherlock's hair, thinking about those words, 'the rest of our lives'. This was such a weird situation from an objective point of view, not a wholly platonic friendship, but not a love affair either. But to be here, to be the one participating in this, to commit himself to this life from now on, felt so right, as to be the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock moved then, to sit up and shift practically into John's lap, sitting on one side of him and draping his legs over his blogger's. He took John's face in his hands and kissed him on the forehead.

"I can't begin to imagine the grief you went through at losing your wife and child John. And you know I mean that, because I'm incapable of that sort of relationship. But if what I felt at the possibility of losing you, was half of what you felt at losing Mary, I know you weren't yourself. I would tear people apart to keep you with me, John and I would sincerely want to kill the person who suggested that your death was my fault."

John didn't hide his tears this time, but he was smiling through them, at having confirmation of how much he meant to Sherlock.

"I was so confused that night, John, I didn't know why you wouldn't speak to me, look at me, even, why you were relying on Lestrade for everything..."

"Because if I'd have looked at you, acknowledged you, I think I might have lost my mind. Look what happened when I did speak to you."

"Well, I wanted to get a reaction from you, any reaction, so I said exactly what I knew would hurt you. I provoked you."

"Again, enough with the excuses, Sherlock. Words should never be enough to cause violence."

"I'm a big boy, I was able to take it." Sherlock grinned.

"No, you're a child, I should've known better." John grinned back.

"Can I delete it now?"

"If you must." John sighed. Perhaps Sherlock was right, forgetting about their fight was better. Unfortunately, John didn't have the luxury of a computerised brain, he would just have to let the memory of hurting his best friend fade with time.

Sherlock moved forwards again and snuggled his head in the crook of John's neck, as the doctor's hand came up to massage his head once more.

"I liked Mary, John. I won't delete her."

It was a simple expression of regret at Mary's death, probably the simplest John had heard, but coming from Sherlock, it meant a lot."

"I was never sure if you did like her." John said, his voice sad, but accepting of the fact that she was gone.

"It wasn't the way I like you, or Mrs Hudson, or Molly, or even Lestrade, but she was cleverer than most people and she loved you so much, John. She appreciated you properly, not like those other women you dated. How could I dislike her, knowing that she saw what I saw in you?"

John leant down and buried his nose in Sherlock's hair, sighing and kissing his head. Pulling back up, he felt a pang of guilt at what he'd said about Sherlock to Mary. Molly had been right, the consulting detective was just as important to John as his wife had been and he understood him just as well.

"I told her that you weren't my other half, Sherlock."

"Well, in the traditional sense of the word, I'm not."

"But you are, I was wrong. When she was around, I think we were each a third of a whole person. You didn't have me here all the time, I couldn't spend as much time with you as I would have liked, she didn't get me all to herself, but both of you gave me what I needed. Three's a crowd, but we were doing alright, we would have made it work. Now it's just us, I can see that you _are_ the other half of me, just as much as she was, though it's … different."

"I can't give you what she gave you, John, I'm just not capable of that."

"I know. But this can be enough. We just have to try harder to communicate, that's all." John whispered sadly, once again feeling the pain of Mary's loss. But it was a dull ache now, it wasn't tearing him to pieces any more.

John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it. The consulting detective tangled his fingers with the doctor's and they sat content, whilst John got used to the feeling of being loved by someone who wasn't his wife. He supposed he was fulfilling Mary's dying wish. She had to have been a clever woman, to have foreseen this before either of the two of them.

However, both men seemed to catch themselves contemplating their situation at the same time, Sherlock curled in John's lap, the two of them holding hands, whilst John ran the fingers of his free hand repeatedly through Sherlock's hair and the consulting detective nuzzled into the doctor's neck.

John began to laugh, Sherlock followed, a deep chuckle, causing John to laugh harder.

"Imagine Lestrade walking through that door right now," he gasped.

"Hmmm." Sherlock replied, "I know what this looks like Detective Inspector, but I'm really not gay," Sherlock mimicked.

They carried on laughing, but as their mirth died down, John had to ask, he had to be clear, because as natural as this felt to him, knowing where he stood and establishing boundaries was important.

"What are we Sherlock, though, what are we really? Because I think this is it for me. I won't marry again. You're stuck with me."

The consulting detective looked up and kissed his blogger gently on the cheek.

"Friends, John." And then he settled back down into John's shoulder and closed his eyes.

"Friends," John whispered, dropping a kiss into Sherlock's curls. And he felt himself breaking the surface of the water and breathing properly, for the first time in a long time.

John smiled, as he went back to watching daytime TV.


End file.
